There's just something about George
by Allicat9
Summary: The windows are dark, but I know he's there. Where else could he be? I should have come here first. It's where I would have gone, had it been me. Written for the Tribute to Fred Competition.


**There's something about George **

I never liked Fred Weasley.

Not really. I mean, I liked him well enough; he was funny, charming, brave…

Yes I liked him, but no, I never _liked_ him, you know what I mean.

I could always tell them apart, the Weasley twins. Always. You just had to look closely. Fred always beamed, no matter what. He was the dreamer, the one who thought up all their crazy inventions, who never looked before he leaped. Well, neither one of them did much looking, but Fred always seemed more irresponsible, the more reckless of the pair. He was the leader, he was the charmer. He was my friend. He was my partner, but I never liked him.

Because there was just something about George. He was the practical one, well as practical as a prankster could be. He took Fred's ideas and made them happen. He smirked, never beamed, and his eyes, if you looked close enough, were just a shade lighter then his brothers.

And…he was magnetic. I felt it, even if no one else did. His laugh was irresistible and everything in me seemed to lurch pleasantly whenever I heard it.

I was closer to Fred. He sat next to me whenever a teacher wanted to separate him and George. I found him annoying my first and second years, "shut up Fred" being my constant refrain, but by third year he had grown on me, and I counted him as one of my closest friends. We laughed together, with or without George (but usually with). I rolled my eyes at their crazy schemes and they teased me for being a stiff. As the year went on George and I grew almost as close and Fred and I were, and I hoped that, eventually, he would see me the way I saw him.

But during our sixth year, I made a monumental mistake. Fred asked me to the dance, the Yule ball, and I said yes. I don't know why I said it. Maybe I was bitter because George had asked Kathleen Philips, a friend of mine, or maybe it was because Fred's eyes had sparkled the way George's sometimes did. I don't know.

But it didn't matter because I said yes to Fred. And I had a wonderful time. We danced the night away, Fred and I, and when he walked me back to the portrait hole, I was sure he was going to kiss me. And I was going to let him. But instead he leaned in a whispered;

"Oh go on Angie, he likes you to." and then he grinned that wicked grin of his, the one so like George's, and walked through the portrait hole, leaving me in the hall to mull over his words.

But I didn't act on them. I don't know why I didn't, I just never did. George and I paled around more then ever seventh year, and Fred's unsubtle hints became increasingly unsubtle as the year went on, but I never acted on them, and neither did George.

And then they were gone. The pair of them, my fantasy and my friend. They spirited themselves away from the prison that was called school left me behind.

I graduated and got an entry level job at the Ministry, having never heard from either of them. I heard they had opened a joke shop in Diagon Alley. I ment to go, but just never got around to it.

And then it was too late. The unthinkable occurred and everything seemed as though it would never be the same again.

I listened to Fred on the radio every evening that I could find the station, and I found that he was as boisterous as ever. As charming and clever and _funny _as ever, and I found that I missed him. Somehow, when my friend's jokes filled the air, the world seemed a little less dark.

When my coin burned as it hadn't in years I knew where to go. I fought, I cried, I killed along with everyone else. We won the war, but I lost.

And now it's been months since Fred's funeral. The funeral where I stood in the back. The funeral where I had my chance to speak with Him, and I didn't.

I stand outside Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, cloak drawn over my head, offering some protection from the rain. Though other shops in the Alley have returned to their former bustle, this one had been closed since….well, for a while.

The windows are dark, but I know he's there. Where else could he be? I checked the Burrow, Shell Cottage. But really, I should have come here first. It's where I would have gone, had it been me.

I go to the door, and am surprised to find it open, it swings ajar at my touch. The shelves are dusty, the room cast in shadow, and a lone figure sits slouched behind the counter, head on the surface, a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand, a smoke flickering out in the other.

He lifts his head at the sound of my entrance, and I am shocked by how-defeated he seems. I knew about the ear- I had seen it at the funeral. But not even the grief I had seen on his face then could have prepared me for how he looks now.

His face is gaunt and sallow, as if he hasn't eaten much, if at all for the past couple of weeks. His fiery hair, usually gleaming looks unwashed, and his eyes are haunted.

"Hey" he slurs and attempts to stand, "Hey I know you." I catch him as he stumbles and lower him back down into his chair.

"Oh George," I sigh, as I run my hands though his hair, something I have always dreamed of doing, "What happened to you?"

"There's no _point_." He grumbles, mostly to himself, and makes a wild gesture around the store, "There's no point to any of this anymore."

"Yes there is George." I say, and the words are strong and confident and I have no idea where they are coming from, "Yes there is, and I'll help you see it again. Now lets get you cleaned up." And I lift him from his chair, allowing him to rest most of his weight on me.

"Always liked you…" He mumbles as his head lolls back onto my shoulder and I can't help Fred's words flashing though my mind.

"I always liked you to George." I whisper, but its with a smile on my lips, "And I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

_Atta girl Angie-show that lump whose boss!_

"Shut up Fred."


End file.
